


The Healed Heart Shows Its Shallow Scars

by princessoftheworlds



Series: It's not a crime to love what you cannot explain [5]
Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: 1940s, AU: Human, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6557989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Klaus Mikaelson, a veteran soldier from World War II, is traumatized by intense nightmares and hallucinations. His only reprieve? A research drug claiming to suppress emotion. And, out of the blue, comes witty and gorgeous Caroline Forbes.</p><p>Day Four of Spring Klaroline AU Week 2016.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Healed Heart Shows Its Shallow Scars

The human psyche is an extraordinary presence with just one major flaw:

Their empathy. 

Human emotions are pesky little sensations. Without them, humans are remarkable creatures capable of greatness, of revolutionizing our quaint bubble of universe. They are capable of becoming faster, stronger, smarter …better…evolving on their own without any aid by nature. Humans are gifted with an amazing perception of the world, better known as ‘common sense.’ Nevertheless, there is still the rather large obstacle obstructing humans from fulfilling their potential: our humanity. Awareness of the chemical reactions in the human brain: elation, courage, compassion, pleasure, love, melancholy, rage, misery, remorse, envy…. All are fatal. Life itself would improve so, so much if there is one simple switch to numb everything out. To never let the human psyche empathize again.

-Dr. Wes Maxfield, The Journal of Life, 1944

~

An explosion of pain spreading through his right shoulder. 

The burst of scarlet dampening his starched white shirt, bright and alarming.

White spots dancing across his darkening vision as shock hits. 

The rate of his beating heart spiking violently.

Breaths escaping him in short, sputtering gasps as the back of his throat begins to choke up.

Tendrils of panic gripping his body, his blood chilling and his body freezing in terror.

~

“Mr. Mikaelson, tell me truthfully: are your nightmares getting any better?”

“Yes, sir.”  
The elder man sighs. Pushes the frame of his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Tugs at the fraying sleeves of his white coat. Stands up and paces the width of the room. “Klaus, how long has it been since you have been coming to me? Nine months? A year and a half? This month alone you have come to me at least four times. Now, tell me again: are your nightmares getting any better?”

“No, sir. They are not getting any better.”

“In previous sessions, you have recalled that most of your nightmares have been influenced by your experiences of the War. Every soldier experiences the same struggle of attempting to normalize himself, pretend that there is no war. They all suffer through the shock, the trauma…” the doctor hesitates, glancing at his patient. “You are still not convinced of how this knowledge will help you specifically.” 

“What? No…. I never said a word…” the patient sputters, taken aback at the abruptness of the doctor.

“You do not have to say a word. You are a very open book; I can read it upon your face.” He runs a hand over the stiff folds of his coat, patting down the nonexistent creases. “Klaus, I have known you since you are a young boy. You have always been a very expressive, a very emotional individual.” The doctor pivots to face Klaus, a weary frown marking his features. “Your mother was the same.”

Klaus rakes a fair-skinned hand through his disheveled hair, causing dirty blond curls to droop against his forehead. He smiles half-heartedly, making no effort to tidy up his hair. “What was it like for you, Uncle? When you returned from the first War?” he inquires feebly.

“It was also very difficult for me…but the reactions, Klaus, the reactions vary for everyone. It is true that war, that violence, has a devastating effect on all men, but the all men are different in mind and in body. Take my example: I was a very daring and very restless youth before the War. War taught me patience, the most important trait that I try to imagine I possess. Several of my former fellow soldiers believe that the aftermath of war can be more destructive to an individual than war itself.” The doctor returns to pacing alongside the length of his desk, his tone becoming more and more agitated as he comes to a halt, clutching the edge of his chair. He stares dejectedly at his nephew, speaking up once more. “You have always been too open, too expressive, too empathetic! All of your emotions ae battling to overpower each other. Your guilt at your helplessness with the unfortunate soldiers. Your loneliness and despair. Your misery. It is all eating you alive, destroying you while your family stand by and watch powerlessly.”

Klaus murmurs in dismay, rubbing at the bags under his eyes until the skin became red and irritated. His clothing is unkempt, and ink stains his skin. There are bits of food stuck in his nailbeds. 

“I cannot hear you…” the other man trails off inaudibly, unsure of how to respond to his nephew’s despair.

“What family? That is what I said. What family do I have? My father and mother, your only sister, died when I had barely become a legal adult and left me with a sister with whom I share only half my father’s blood! And she too was married off within a year of when I learned of her existence!” Klaus takes a few calming breaths before continuing. “You are my only family, Uncle Alaric, and I only see you as a doctor due to your jam-packed schedules.” His bloodshot, blue-eyed gaze flickers wildly around the room.

Alaric lets out a long, tense sigh. “I have known many former soldiers similar to you. They cannot adjust back into society, and many of them ending up wasting their lives away with a bottle. Or a pistol. The bottom line is that I do not wish to see you end up that way.”

“What options do I have then?” Klaus questions morosely. “I cannot just close my eyes and wish the nightmares away.”

“There is something I may be able to offer you…” Alaric states quietly. He takes a seat in front of his nephew. 

Klaus visibly brightens, his gaze focusing back on his uncle.

“I cannot guarantee that it shall work. However, it is a clinical drug that is attempting to be developed as a treatment for soldiers with problems similar to you.”

“What will it do?” asks Klaus.

“It supposedly will,” here Alaric struggles for a word, “‘dull’ some of your emotions. It may take the edge and allow you live your life normally so that you can adjust. Do keep in mind that it may not work…”

“I want it, consequences or not!” Klaus cries adamantly. 

“I shall contact the doctor behind the drug, Dr. Wes Maxfield. I have worked with him quite a bit. He shall want to administer the first dose to you himself.”

~

The day of his appointment with Dr. Maxfield, Klaus rises early and takes a brief shower. He combs and parts his damp hair and pats his skin dry with a soft towel. He dresses in a charcoal-colored trousers and a starched white shirt. He fastens his cuffs with a pair of silver cufflinks.

Klaus takes a light breakfast of buttered toast and a cup of Earl Grey. His former European allies have heavily-influenced his choices of tea.

He lays out his painting supplies, gazing around at the copies of his modern paintings that have sold for a fair sum of cash and allowed him to retain his modest apartment, and perches in front of his easel for half an hour before packing everything back up, uninspired.

It is then that Klaus Mikaelson heads outside to flag a taxi and head to his uncle’s clinic.

~

Wes Maxfield is a grey-haired, skinny man approaching the latter half of middle age with empty dark eyes. “Klaus Mikaelson? Your uncle has told me a great deal about you, more specifically about your issues,” he states in a faint Australian accent.

“Fantastic,” Klaus replies dryly. 

“Well, let us get to it.” Dr. Maxfield seats Klaus in a cushioned chair and sterilizes the area around the younger man’s elbow joint before withdrawing a vial of purple liquid and two transparent bottles of purple pills.

Klaus pockets the bottles of pills before staring uneasily into Dr. Maxfield’s eyes. They appear to be bottomless voids of darkness.

Dr. Maxfield clears his throat with a loud huff. “How this drug is thought to work is that it alters those pesky chemicals in your brain that control emotions. You may find yourself feeling a little freer from those restricting sensations. The vial is what I shall start you off with initially. It is about the same quantity of dose as two pills. The two bottles shall last you about six to nine months, maybe a year if you are careful. I would recommend that you start with two pills every other week and then proceed to one pill a week. This dose itself will last you two weeks. Essentially, this is an off-record clinical trial, and if you attempt to contact me again, I shall deny that this ever happened. Shall we begin?”

A hard lump had formed in Klaus’s dried throat. He swallows it down and nods. “Yes.”

Dr. Maxfield pours the contents of the vial into a syringe and wipes its needle. He stabs the needle into the delicate skin around Klaus’s elbow joint and presses down on the trigger. The purple liquid drains out of the transparent syringe.

~

Klaus leaves the clinic feeling slightly buzzed but still rather normal. He strolls around the city for a bit before he finds himself in front of a familiar apartment door. He knocks on it.

The door swings open a moment later to reveal Rebekah Salvatore, Klaus’s half-sister. 

“Nik,” Rebekah’s husband, Stefan, calls from behind Rebekah. “How did it go? How do you feel?”

Klaus snorts, “I feel the same.”

Rebekah frowns, unease written upon her delicate face. She locks eyes with her husband. “Come inside, Klaus. Have dinner with us. Try to stay the night.”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” Klaus states as he glances up to meet Rebekah’s steely gaze.

~

Klaus ends up staying for dinner and sleeping over. As the dinner proceeds, Klaus’s headache worsens and worsens to the point that he dismisses himself to go rest in the apartment’s guest bedroom. He stretches out on the soft mattress with a quiet groan before falling prisoner to slumber’s dark reaches.

~

It is only a few hours later that Klaus awakes with a burning pain throughout his body, everywhere and in his heart. 

He stumbles to the door but collapses after a few steps. The burning sensation engulfs his body in flames. Heat is the only sensation he feels. Heat. And pain.

The first scream rips from his throat. And then the sound of his anguished cries drowns everything else out.

He can feel something draining from his body. He can feel the weight of the world of the world lifting off of him.

Time slows down infinitely.

His body relaxes.

The air around him stills. It feels empty. It feels hollow.

It feels free.

~

A few moments later when Rebekah and Stefan come darting through the door, a knife in Stefan’s hand, they find Klaus sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall.

“What happened, Klaus?” Rebekah questions timidly. “How do you feel?”

And then Klaus’s hollow, dark blue gaze focuses on the same eyes of his sister. Hers are bursting with life and full of color. His are cold and dull, hollow and flat. 

He states in a dull voice, “I feel nothing.”

~

It’s hard for Klaus to describe the weightlessness he feels, the freedom from over twenty-eight years of guilt and misery and jealousy and hatred and all trivial little things. 

He can hear Rebekah on the telephone with his uncle. Stefan is behind her in the corner, keeping mum and fiddling with a length of string.

“What happened to him?” she hisses into the telephone with agitation and worry. “Why is he acting so, so still? It’s unnatural!” 

Klaus snorts. They don’t understand what it is like for him. A layer of foggy haze has been lifted from his mind, and he can see everything now, clear and concise and untainted. He can think rationally now, with his head and not with his heart.

“What do you mean that we have to wait for the drug to wear off, Uncle Alaric?” Rebekah’s shrill cries echo around the room. 

Stefan winces and covers his ears, rubbing soothing circles on his wife’s lower back. He sneaks a quick glance over at Klaus.

Klaus simply rolls his eyes; Rebekah is acting completely childish. She’ll soon see that this emotionlessness will be better for him than drowning in paralyzing fear and guilt. Running a hand through his thick hair, he grimaces, realizing that it is time to get his physical appearance under control again. He is starting to resemble those sickly blood-sucking demons from Stefan’s horror novels. 

Rebekah is still conversing with Alaric, growing more and more frustrated by the minute. Stefan is eavesdropping intently on the telephone conversation.

Klaus studies his knuckles, bruised with splatters of paint, with boredom. He rises to his feet and strolls out the door, Stefan shouting at him in astonishment.

~

As soon as Klaus returns to his own apartment, he stalks to his bathroom and studies his face in the mirror with disinterest.

The change he feels is not very evident upon his face, unless you glance very, very closely.

His facial muscles and features are relaxed, the years and lines of stress that used to litter his forehead fading away. He appears younger, almost able to pass for his teenaged self if one looks past all his stubble.

His eyes have transformed the most, resembling Dr. Maxfield’s. No longer bloodshot, they are hollow striking cobalt pits, though seeming very one-dimensional with no usual whirlpool of conflicting emotion present. 

He smirks. 

~

The first week passes by phenomenally.

Every day throughout the week, Klaus is finally able to function as a normal, rational, sane person. There are no paralyzing nightmares or no crippling guilt or terror.

He paints.

He paints image after image in varying shades of monochromatic grey. 

He sketches. 

He fills out his previously half-used sketchbook. 

He paints and sketches what he observes, everything he ever notices, as simple as that.

Everything is normal.

~

It’s the Wednesday of the next week when something interesting occurs. 

~

On an ordinarily-warm Wednesday morning, Klaus finds himself perched in front of his easel, brush in hand, filling in the image of the city square upon his canvas with broad strokes and finer shading. The rush of pedestrians to and fro amongst the confines of the plaza is depicted in various tones of dull grey or black or white.

“That’s an interesting perspective,” a feminine voice calls over his shoulder. 

Pivoting around on his wooden stool in bewilderment, Klaus snorts in agreement. “If you like monochrome.” He eyes his so-called aficionado with interest.

She is what Klaus would call, even without his sappy emotions of love exaggerating her features, attractive. With unblemished skin, hair falling to her shoulders in golden-sunshiny waves, cornflower blue eyes, and symmetrical features, she has the looks to compete with the famed flappers of the 1920s, if her appealing face was not marred by the crescent-shaped scar running from the sharp slope of her nose to the edge of her rounded chin. 

“You paint?” he questions, spotting the brush clenched in her hand and the easel behind her. 

A scowl splits her delicate features. “Women can paint too,” she sneers. “Painting isn’t a man’s game, like everything else that requires concentration usually is.”

Klaus smirks, taken aback by her ferocity and bluntness. “I never said they couldn’t. In fact,” he says, glancing at the open sketchbook facing toward him, “I was actually going to say that you’re a pretty talented painter.”

“Hmm,” she hums, her expression softening while the challenge in her eyes still remain. 

“Klaus,” he holds out his hand. “Klaus Mikaelson.”

She takes and shakes his hand with a firm and steady grip. “Caroline Forbes. I love what you’ve done with your piece,” she chuckles at her own private joke. “Do you mind?” she gestures at his easel.

Curious, Klaus replies, “No, no. Go ahead. I finished up already, and the paint dried a long while back.”

Caroline props her sketchbook on the easel and flips through a couple pages, searching for something specific. Upon finding it, she lets out a triumphant click of her tongue and reveals it to Klaus. 

He inspects it with a closer glance and simply blinks slowly at the irony: 

Caroline’s sketch is an exact replica of his painting. Except where his is flat and with narrow perspective, hers is bursting with color and life.

The lace frock on the little girl, where in his is a dull silver, is the yellow of a buttercup. The sky is a brilliant and bright blue. The water in the fountain is grey-blue with veins of aquamarine. The flowers in the corner shop and in the smartly-dressed man’s grip is blooming with violet and fuchsia. Klaus can almost feel the amber rays of sunshine dancing on his skin, smell the vivid chocolate pastries with the pale cream in the bakery window. 

Almost. He can almost feel.

“As I said, you are incredibly talented.” Klaus swallows, something hard lodged deep in his throat.

She hums in agreement. “Me? Oh, no. I’m an amateur. Good, yes. Talented, yes. But a professional? No.”

“Certainly not humble,” Klaus mutters against his better judgement.

Caroline shrugs indifferently. “It’s a skill you gotta learn to keep playing in the men’s game.”

“Such a shame that art is considered a man’s world. Art could have been a revolutionary profession if conservatives had not frowned upon women participating in artistic movements,” Klaus states with slight, tangible regret.

“Yes, a shame,” she agrees dryly. “The Renaissance lacked a woman’s touch.”

He can’t help himself, emotions be damned. Klaus chuckles, her dry and piercing wit almost endearing to him. “Well, Caroline. It was certainly pleasant meeting you.” He stands and begins to retrieve his supplies, tidying up his work space. 

“See ya round?” she cocks her head curiously, interest alight in her luminous azure eyes, as frizzy locks of hair tug out of her elegant hairdo.

“See ya around.” He turns his back on her with fleeting disinterest that only resonates in his mind, not his hollowed heart.

Despite his current emotionless state, he knows he’ll actually look forward to seeing Caroline Forbes again.


End file.
